Читать книгу The Man Who Loved Lions - Ethel Lina White - Страница 8

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She jumped off her bed, drew a fur coat over her suit and pulled a discouraging little hat—sold to her as the latest fashion—over one eye. A few minutes later she was on her way to the reunion, sinking downward in the lift and pushing through the crowded vestibule. She carried a gas-mask and a pocket-torch, but in spite of their reminds of war conditions, she had not realised the completeness of the black-out.

When she had passed through the revolving-doors, the light gradually dimmed until she swung round to face a wall of darkness. While her eyes were still dazzled from the illumination of the lounge, it seemed an absolute eclipse. Presently, however, she distinguished faint gleams from passing traffic and circles mottling the pavement, thrown downward by electric torches. She could see no pedestrians while she heard voices and footsteps, as though the city were inhabited by an invisible race; but as she lingered in the entrance, she collided with a solid body.

Someone wished to enter the hotel. Stepping aside, she stared before her, when she became aware gradually of blurred shapes passing by. They were so dim and formless that they suggested survivors from a prehistoric race, groping in their eternal midnight. But as her eyes adapted themselves to the black-out the scene became more normal.

As she watched it she had a sense of being cheated. When she had looked forward to this moment, she had visualised a pre-war London—the brilliant street lights, the changing colours of advertisement signs and the glowing façades of theatres and cinemas. It was a keen disappointment and made her apprehensive of the future.

"I expect they are all waiting for me in the Underground," she thought hopefully.

The station was only a few yards from the hotel and she crossed the narrow street in a reckless rush. As she was stumbling down the steps of the nearest entrance she saw the light of the booking-hall around the corner, as though in fulfilment of her dreams. Instantly the years were forgotten and it seemed only yesterday that she hurried down the subway in her eagerness to meet her companions.

Breaking into a run, she burst into the hall, expecting to hear her name called by a familiar voice. When no one claimed her, she paused to look around her. After years spent in solitude, she got an impression of confusion and haste. Every one appeared to be in a hurry to get home. On that evening, there were only a few loiterers and there seemed to be no friendly reunions.

Standing in their usual place she looked at the clock.

"It's the time we always met," she reflected. "I'd better stay put."

As the minutes passed, she grew too impatient to stand and watch the constant stream of passengers, so she went in search of the others. After she had completed the round of the booking-hall without meeting any one who resembled a Sullied Soul, she felt chilled with fresh disappointment.

"Perhaps we've passed without recognising each other," she thought. "I wonder if I've changed much."

She tried to stare impersonally into a strip of mirror at the back of a shop window. It reflected a tall slender girl, wearing a closely-fitting nigger-brown suit under an open fur coat. Her dark hair waved to her shoulders and her eyes glowed with excitement in a pale anxious face.

"Actually I look younger," she decided. "It's the short skirt and the kid hair style. I've lost weight too. But really there's nothing to it. I ought to recognise them."

She told herself that in the course of seven years, no one would grow bald or acquire a stomach of the first magnitude. A girl might change the colour of her hair or a man might grow a beard, but the salient features would remain. She was trying to pierce problematic disguises when she noticed that the hands of the clock pointed to a quarter to seven.

It was the accustomed signal to wait no longer for stragglers but to dash down to the train. Since she had committed herself to a time-table which covered the hours of eight to twelve, it was important to keep to schedule.

Her face dulled as she stood on the descending escalator, since there was no rival Atlanta to race down the steps. Boarding a train in dignity, she managed to procure a seat. In spite of these improved conditions, the carriage appeared a dull place minus Genius and Beauty, to proclaim their opinions, without deference to the corns or ear-drums of the Public.

As she looked around her, the various uniforms reminded her that she intended to get into one of the Services as soon as possible. Crediting her companions with her own patriotism, she considered an ominous explanation for their absence.

"Of course, they've all joined up and can't get leave. Actually I'd forgotten the war. And the war's too big for me to fight. What's the good of going on?"

Even as she weakened, she recalled her dominant purpose.

"I must go on or I'll never see Stephen again. It's my only chance. Ganges is all that matters. If Richard isn't there to open the door. I must get inside the tower-room somehow. I must stay there from eight to twelve, on the chance that Stephen might come to the reunion. If he doesn't come, someone else must remember the date. That person may tell me where to find Stephen."

Then the light returned to her eyes at a further reflection.

"What a mug. I expected them to meet at Piccadilly Circus, when they are all scattered. They will be coming from different stations. One of them might even be coming on this train."

She thought of them set at various points in a circle and gradually drawing together, like the spokes of a wheel, until they met at Ganges. As she smiled, a man—hatless and wearing a belted camel-coat—stared at her as though he interpreted her smile as an overture, but lacked energy to follow it up. He was tall and heavily-built, with a gross handsome face and dull eyes devoid of a spark of spirit.

Ann could not understand her instinctive recoil, until she got a clue from his hair, gleaming under a light. It was very fair and had a strong natural wave. She knew that she disliked him because it was too easy to imagine him as a slender blond youth with a clear-cut arrogant face and sparkling blue eyes—a golden youth who might resemble John.